


Eleven Years

by waspabi



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 12:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14749322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waspabi/pseuds/waspabi
Summary: The door inches open. Alex, of course. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled suit. His Conference Champions cap with the sticker still on the brim, the fucking Prince of Wales Trophy still clutched in one big hand.“That won’t fit in here,” Nicke says nonsensically, but Alex is already forcing himself and the trophy into the minute space. He shuts the door behind him.





	Eleven Years

**Author's Note:**

> "#balls deep in friend love bitch" - somebody on tumblr who is my new best friend
> 
> Thanks Hockey Coven for the look-over and also for the emotional support and mutual screaming.

Nicke stares at his hands braced on the narrow bathroom sink. The beige bandage swallowing his right palm, his swollen finger red and raw. He takes a breath. Sickly airplane smell, generic soap.

He drops his chin to his chest. Nicke wipes at his cheeks with his left hand and shakes his head, bemused. Jesus. He’s gotta pull himself together. Go out there and celebrate with the boys. He can’t seem to stop fucking leaking.

Nicke blinks at himself in the mirror. The faint lines on his forehead, his patchy beard coming in ginger. He knows he’s older now, but he still feels the same. Young. Eleven years, shit.

A knock on the flimsy door. The corner of Nicke’s mouth pulls up, uncontrollable.

Alex and Nicke never had a secret knock, or a special signal. Alex doesn’t knock in a particularly distinct way. There’s no logical reason Nicke should be able to know it’s him. He knows anyway, a bone-deep certainty like the thud of a tape-to-tape pass. It’s Alex.

Nicke slides the lock to the left until it shows green: unoccupied. He puts his hands back on the counter and waits.

The door inches open. Alex, of course. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled suit. His Conference Champions cap with the sticker still on the brim, the fucking Prince of Wales Trophy still clutched in one big hand.

“That won’t fit in here,” Nicke says nonsensically, but Alex is already forcing himself and the trophy into the minute space. He shuts the door behind him.

“Fits a little.” Alex props the trophy up next to the sink and beams at Nicke. He almost hurts to look at: his eyes so bright, cheeks wet. “Fuck, Backy.”

Nicke shakes his head, mute.

“Backy, we…” Alex trails off, bashful, ears red. He opens his arms.

Nicke can feel his face collapse with helpless joy. He tries not to blink. If he blinks he’s gonna cry.

Alex wraps him up. He’s sweaty, a little sticky where champagne spilled over his neck and shirt. Nicke’s cheek presses against Alex’s unruly beard. God, the familiar smell of him. At least he doesn’t wear that shitty cologne anymore. Nicke shuts his eyes. “One more,” he says. “One more, Ovi.”

Alex pulls back a little. Their faces are so close, Alex’s breath ghosting over Nicke’s skin. Alex’s joy has gone from a bonfire to a glowing ember, so deep it shines from his skin. His eyes are soft, wondering. His eyes stutter on Nicke’s mouth.

Nicke takes a short, sharp breath. This used to—this would happen, when they were young. A suspended moment. A string stretched tight. And then somebody would interrupt them, or Alex would make a stupid joke, or Nicke would duck away, overwhelmed.

Alex doesn’t make a stupid joke this time. Nicke doesn’t duck away. He takes a deep breath. He feels like he’s about to jump out of the fucking airplane. He clutches Alex’s shoulders.

Maybe Alex moves first, or maybe Nicke does. They’re so close it doesn’t matter. Their mouths graze together, unbearably soft. The delicate scrape of Alex’s chapped lips. The brush of his beard.

Nicke hears himself make a sound. Choked, cracked-open.

Alex groans. His fingers tighten in Nicke’s hair. His mouth opens and Nicke can taste him, can feel the jagged cut of his teeth under his tongue.

Oh, fuck. Nicke needs more, he needs Alex closer. The press of his wide chest. His hot mouth. The unbearable curve of his ass in his stupid suit trousers, Nicke’s hands clenching on the swell of muscle. Something clatters somewhere in the bathroom, a loud metallic clank. Nicke doesn’t give a shit. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. The plane could plummet to the earth and Nicke would stay right here, Alex’s big body crushing him onto the sink. 

Nicke wraps his legs around Alex’s hips. Alex is hard, the hot swell of his cock unmistakable. Nicke gasps, his hips jerking up. Nicke forces his good hand down the back of Alex’s trousers to reach skin. Alex yanks Nicke’s shirt up, rips half the buttons and then swears when he feels Nicke’s undershirt underneath.

“So fucking clothes,” Alex pants into Nicke’s mouth.

Nicke smiles, helpless. _Alex_. “Touch me already.”

“I _try_ ,” Alex swears, yanking Nicke’s belt off and discarding it behind him.

“Not so good.” Nicke leans back to watch Alex fumble with the button on his trousers. “You need help?”

“ _You_ try, you so—” Alex shakes his head, tongue caught between his teeth. “Fuck.” Alex cups Nicke’s face in both hands. “Don’t care.” He leans in slow, brushes their noses together before capturing Nicke’s open mouth in a messy kiss. “Don’t fucking care, we have time.”

Nicke’s eyes sting, water. “Alex,” he murmurs, and his voice is so hoarse.

Alex touches Nicke’s cheek, his eyebrow, the shell of his ear. His gentle, calloused fingers. “Nicky.”

Nicke rests the back of his head against the mirror and breathes. He feels too much. He can’t hold it all. He laughs a little, dazed with delirious joy, and then Alex slides his hands up Nicke’s thighs and kisses his neck. Nicke chokes, moans. He’s not used to feeling so sensitive. The scrape of Alex’s teeth. The wet heat of his tongue. Nicke clutches Alex’s back. Flings his hand out for balance.

Alex pulls away, frowning.

Nicke immediately wants to swallow the pathetic whimper that escapes his throat, but god, fuck it. It’s Alex. Alex has seen him crying, puking, sweaty and miserable. He’s seen him snivelling, shouting, sulking at a bad call or a stupid publicity obligation. Nicke lets himself whimper. He wants Alex’s mouth back on his neck.

“Your hand.” Alex gently pulls Nicke’s right hand off the counter. “You hold on me. I got you.”

“Fine. Okay. Get on with it.” Nicke wraps his arms around Alex’s shoulders and arches his hips up so their dicks press together, a shivery thrill. Alex’s mouth drops open. His lips are red, swollen, his eyes cloudy with lust. Nicke feels immense, unstoppable. He feels like a goddamn king. “Kiss me,” he says, and shivers when Alex obeys.

Time swims together. Hot need swallows Nicke whole. He’s an exposed nerve. Something breaks underneath them, or next to them, or twenty miles away. Nicke doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. The violence of his need is terrifying. He’s gasping, groaning. Talking nonsense. With anyone else Nicke would pull back, force himself under a false carapace of calm, but it’s Alex. It’s just Alex, wild-eyed and desperate, in this thing next to him.

Alex forces his hand down the front of Nicke’s trousers and swears, his thumb slipping over the head of his dick. “Wet,” he pants, teeth sinking into Nicke’s neck. “Nicky, I want—I want—”

Nicke comes like he’s nineteen years old again, a couple strokes of Alex’s hand and he’s heaving through the blinding flare of his orgasm. “Ah, fuck,” Nicke pants, biting Alex’s shoulder through his shirt. “Ah, fuck, Alex.”

“Nicky,” Alex pleads. His fingers flex on Nicke’s wet softening dick. God, he’s so sensitive but he lets Alex do it, spreads his knees wide and lets Alex have him. The sharp throb of pain blooms into raw pleasure so intense it’s almost too much. Nicke makes sounds deep from the back of his throat and holds on.

Alex pulls his hand out of Nicke’s trousers. Nicke is relieved and disappointed, dazed by what he would let Alex do to him, if he wanted. What he would do to Alex. What they could do with each other.

Alex stares at his hand, glistening wet in the bathroom light. Nicke stares at Alex. Nicke must have knocked his hat off; his grey hair stands up in wild tufts. Alex puts his fingers to his swollen mouth and tastes Nicke’s come.

“Oh, fuck,” Nicke croaks. “Alex.”

Alex sucks his fingers and rubs his dick up against Nicke’s thigh, wild eyes fixed on his. He comes with a low, hoarse groan, his forehead tipping onto to Nicke’s shoulder.

Alex is shaking. Nicke holds onto him, tries to envelop the big, tender body Nicke knows like his own. Every injury, every old wound. Alex’s bad shoulder, the geography of his puckered scars. The way his eyebrows pull together when he’s lying. The slump of his shoulders when he’s unhappy. The sly curve of his mouth before he tells a dirty joke. Nicke cups the back of his head and feels the shape of his skull under his thick hair.

“Hey. We break trophy?” Alex’s voice is a low rumble against Nicke’s throat.

Nicke strokes Alex’s hair and peers over his shoulder to the floor. “No,” he says. “Soap thing, yes.”

The Prince of Wales Trophy sits gleaming and whole on the floor amidst the remnants of the soap dispenser, scattered buttons, a pile of toilet paper and what like looks half the contents of Alex’s wallet.

Nicke thinks he should be scared, struck dumb with terror at the bottomless ache in his heart for the big man in his arms. His bullheaded joy. His generous heart. Eleven years of endless practices and games, road trips and dinners, time ruthlessly peeling away the myth to expose the man underneath. Nicke’s teenage adulation slipping from his eyes until he’d bristle at Alex’s sullen spells, at his sulky disappointment. His sloppy giveaways and ridiculous diet, his infuriating obstinance, eleven years of squabbling and shit, of loss after poisonous loss and Nicke never stopped loving him. God, he loves him so much more. That rookie with a sloppy crush had no idea love could cut so deep, so close to the bone.

Nicke presses his lips to the crown of Alex’s head. “You wanna go out? Face the boys?”

Alex tightens his grip on Nicke’s waist. “I’m not done,” he says, and nips Nicke’s throat.

“I’m not done either.” He lifts his chin to give Alex more room. “Maybe we’ll never be done.”

“Never done at anything. Nothing. I keep doing it all.” Alex nips Nicke’s neck, his earlobe, the shell of his ear. He’s grinning. Nicke can hear it in his voice. “You know, maybe I’ll play forever. What do you think?”

“Why not?” Nicke combs his fingers through Alex’s tangled hair. “You can play longer than Jagr. Break Gordie Howe’s record. How old was he, fifty? That’s nothing.”

“And I need somebody pass to me. Nobody’s as good as you.” Alex hums, toying with Nicke’s shirt. “Don’t tell Kuzy I say. He know, but it’s not nice to remind him. It’s gotta be you. You gotta play forever too.”

Nicke laughs. “Okay. Sure.”

“Now you say it. We both play forever.”

“We’ll both play forever,” Nicke parrots, pinching Alex’s soft side. “Happy?”

Alex kisses Nicke’s cheek. “Yes,” he says, quiet and honest.

“Me too,” Nicke admits. It’s almost too much, the raw sweet ache of his heart. Maybe he should be scared. He’s not scared at all.


End file.
